Shotgunner's Duel
by Misery Curtains
Summary: The grunt before him, it notices finally. Altered synapses fire off in its head, all of them screaming one thing: KILL. (contains gore and violence)


Shotgunner's Duel

He stumbles through the slipgate, weary, confused. A light clunking of parts from the shaking of both his body armour and shotgun harken his arrival here, in this dank desolate hell. He stops, shifts a little, then bends over and vomits; typically the portals are never as rough as that. He cannot recall why the slipgate seemed to have such a horrifying aura as he passed through it. Fortunately for him, a wall is close by, and before he can collapse, he props himself up upon it, shoulder first, and regains composure. The head spins, the bones jolt,

He then takes in all that is before him: the place is dark and lit with old flames, fueled by a menacing reek of flesh rotten and archaic. The halls before him bring to mind images of Germanic castles wasting away in the darkest reaches of a black forest. He cricks his neck, relieving the pockets of oxygen of their limiting ways. The pack upon his back, heavy with first aid and extra shells, forced his spine to bend backwards, the sudden weight forgotten momentarily during travel. He now must readjust himself before moving forward.

The communicator on his left forearm, fried, screen shattered, little sparks popping from the scorched electronics within. His helmet feels heftier than before. He can't call HQ, he can't call his CO, he can't call anyone. He's alone here, in the castle. He figures he can only move onwards, through the halls.

Battle was raged here. Blood spilt in great strokes of violence, decorating the floor and walls with gore. A few pieces of demonic facial features, scattered about. Some organs, deflated and punctured, resting haphazardly all around. He's seen it all before, but he had never seen carnage so aged, so forgotten. He has traversed through many scenes much similar to this, has caused even more of them. But he never stayed around to see his handiwork fade into the surroundings. As he recalls the bloodied scenery of the past, he brings his shotgun to his chest, feeling the congealed crimson along its pump grip, its barrel. Vile reminders of his own skill set, reminders he would carry forever.

The castle, here, now, is empty. There is, upon first impression, no one here but he, this soldier from beyond the slipgate. He tightens the grip on his gun, as if hoping it would better make him prepared for whatever might appear at random. Through these halls of gore, he carries on. Hoping maybe to find the reason why he is here. Far and away, somewhere in the distance, there are faint screams and the scraping and clanging of metal on metal. The smell of rot, of putrefaction, intensifies as he continues forward. He pushes on, both in fear and compulsion.

Although the hall is blackened with the blood of others, a light seems to intrude from around a corner at the end, shining left-ward. In this light, he squints, is a body. As he comes closer to it, the fate of this being becomes clear, like a horror scrawled in old stone. Approaching the light, he sees that it was a man, similar to him, now rotted away but still adorned in battle fatigues. His gun is gone, but the ammo is still there, unfired, fresh in a blood-dried satchel. He bends down, and pulls out a hearty amount of shotgun shells. Into his own satchel they go, even bloodier than the one they were in before. He then turns to face down the light.

Behold: a great citadel. Magnificent in its construction, diabolical in its décor. There is no ceiling to hide the rushing of purple, hateful skies above, swirling a nexus aimed at the citadel's centre. There are great swathes of blood, of grounded bodies, of ancient carnage, almost frozen in various states of decay all around; no area of the floor is untainted. The walls depict not stories, but fragments of death, be they suicide or homicide. There are staircases lined along the octagonal limits, leading to a pentagram of wooden rafters high above. The smell of discharged ammunition is great, overpowered, eternal.

It is confirmed: there has been battle here, raged in savage forms.

But why is he here? Why did the slipgate take him here? Without a working communicator, there can be no way of knowing if this detour was intentional or not. Any semblance of an explanation, lost with the trans-dimensional severance of a few mere wires. He curses it all, but there is no time to see such vexation to the end.

Then, there is a familiar _whoosh_. He looks to the opposite end of the citadel, and sees an opening similar to that of one he just exited. A bright flash cuts through the darkness into which the opening turns into. From the right, he hears something. A hacking cough, the dropping of vomit unto stone floor, and heavy, ragged breathing. And then, the footsteps, followed by the _shhk-chk_ of…

…of a shotgun.

He raises his own gun to meet this new development. The sights, although dulled to twin nublets, remains loyal to his aim. The darkness fades in as the opening turns 'round the corner. The steps remain singular, with ingrained cadence emerging more and more. He moves one foot forward, stiffens himself to retain his sights even through recoil.

Step… step… step… stop. There is a sound of rummaging. A light clicking of materials. Then a few more steps, these more cautious than before. And then, there they are.

Another soldier, a grunt. This one is caked in the innards of another, their face a mess of gore and scarring. They too are armed with a shotgun at the ready. Their head seems to swivel freely from its spine, and the movements they make are lumbering yet concise. Eyes dulled, white. Features slashed and shredded by warfare past. It's as if they are some savage, unhinged clone of himself.

He lowers the barrel, only slightly. Focus has been lost, in sight of this… this _bizarre_ development.

The grunt before him, it notices finally. Altered synapses fire off in its head, all of them screaming one thing: KILL.

With that, it lurches forward and throws its gun up to firing position. He realizes what's coming, and regains his aim, but before he can fire, the grunt squeezes off a shell. Buckshot perforates his left arm as he falls backward, clutching his arm in grand agony. The force of the buckshot has spun him around, and the congealed blood beneath his boots has sent him rushing to the ground. The pain is searing, and the grunt, grinning, is now stalking towards him. With his left arm sprawled out, bleeding heavily, he swings his gun up with the strength of only his right, and blasts the grunt squarely in the face. Cranial chunks explode behind its head, and he sits up while it's discombobulated. He gets upon his feet, and begins backing up in hasty self-protection. The grunt is screaming, growing, coughing up blood from what's left of it's mouth. He places his wounded limb behind him, tosses the shotgun up and catches it's fore-end with his still working hand, readies a fresh shell, then tosses it so he clasps the grip. The weight of the gun keeps him from lining up a perfect shot, but the grunt is charging in a straight line. He steadies himself, grits his teeth to counter the pain in his left arm, tightens his right in preparation to bring it upwards and fire.

The grunt is coming, charging, raging towards him. It's only when the grunt comes a mere three feet away when he throws up the business end and fires straight into the grunt's chest. A great red spattering expels from the grunt's torso, the force throwing him backwards. He sees this opportunity to run towards the staircase to his left, throwing his gun onto the back of his neck to better carry it. The grunt has fallen onto its back, like a zombified turtle, but unlike such a reptile, it grasps its position on the floor, and prepares to turn itself over. *Horrified, and with a heartrate threatening to explode his chest cavity, he climbs up the stairs in sweaty, terrible panic.

He makes it to the top. A landing platform starts for the centre of the citadel, but stops short, giving way to one of four rafters that lead inward to a wooden pentagram. He waits for some kind of indication that the grunt is still on the floor, but instead he hears footsteps. It's coming for him, complete with erratic trailing of bloody cartilage. He sees the grunt stalking upwards, and in a moment of desperation, he charges across the rafter before him, slamming one boot before the other while trying to keep balance. The grunt is right behind him, surveying this new story, snarling with a gore-choked maw. He reaches the circle that encases the aerial pentagram, plants his feet and prepares to throw up his shotgun for another round, just as the grunt spots him and begins to charge. He throws the tip of the gun up, and pulls the trigger.

Nothing.

It's jammed.

The grunt lunges and knocks him down, pinning him to the bottom point of the 'gram. It screams in his face, spewing vomit down onto his face. His gun falls to the ground, and the grunt, demonically, seems to laugh at this. He tries to choke the monster, push him off and down to the ground below. He grabs its neck, puncturing skin and muscle with dirtied nails and calloused fingers, unleashing torrents of fetid blood. But before he can push him off, the grunt grabs him, and soon the two roll from off the pentagram's point, plummeting to the ground.

In midair, the battle continues. Choking, screaming, vomiting.

He somehow manages to turn himself, just before impact, and land right into its chest. The grunt is splattered in a million directions, entrails flying and covering ground in all ways. He, miraculously, is alive.

A few minutes pass before he finally gets up. The grunt is still convulsing, trying to bring itself back together, but to no avail. He looks around, and sees, now, that the pentagram above has trapped the grunt within its centre. The lone victor, he stumbles towards his downed gun, and retrieves it. One shell, still in the chamber. He stalks back to the grunt, now in its final moments. He looks down the pathetic creature, places the barrel against its skull, and-

 _BANG_.

Brains, everywhere. The grunt ceases all motor movement. Its chest, already blasted to pieces, falls for the last time.

Victory, and in all its crimson glory.

He lumbers to the opposite entrance. Peering around the corner, he sees the exit. Another slipgate. With only his trusted weapon in tow, left arm hanging and shredded with buckshot, he heads for it, hoping that it'll finally take him home.

* * *

Hey.

Just a little thing to break writer's block.

Huge fan of the Quake series so it made sense to try this idea with this universe.

Love and strychnine,

~Misery Curtains


End file.
